


The Northern

by oppressa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cold Weather, Forced Bonding, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Male Friendship, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tris notices that no one is shaking like Qarl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Northern

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, fixed a few things since first posting but sorry if you come across anything glaring.
> 
> Written because I've seen these guys getting a bit more love recently and wanted in on it!

 

Tris has long since become numb to the chill in the wind, but it continues to knock him back, and he has to stop to catch his breath, so that the man behind almost walks into him. Qarl's dark eyes meet his as he pushes past, looking absolutely exhausted and frozen to the bone.

“What the fuck are you staring at, Botley?” He's not usually so openly aggressive, still sick with anger about what happened to Asha. One of the Southron men had come down to the dungeon and told them she'd grovelled on her knees for their worthless lives. They didn't even get to say goodbye.

“You're cold.” Tris says, without thinking. Something about the intimidating, bitter way in which Qarl regards him makes him blurt out the most idiotic observations.

“So is everybody else on this godforsaken march.” He snaps, effectively ending the confrontation, yet the defensiveness in the reply gives Tris cause to watch him after he's gone on.

He remains able to distinguish him from the rest of the men. Most of them are shivering, yes, but no one is shaking like Qarl. He has a thin half-cape tied on top of his fighting gear and long hair to cover his ears but no beard, nothing fur-lined. Also, he's walked all the way, trudging with his head down as the snow comes up to their knees in drifts. Tris wonders vaguely whether he's aware he could lose extremities he's never lost in a Fingerdance to frostbite.

 

He lasts longer than Tris expects, collapsing at the very end of the next day as the dark is drawing in, although the colour of the sky remains pale. Nobody else seems to notice, and if it wasn't for Tris keeping an eye on him straggling at the back of the line, he would have been left where he fell, soon to be buried under the endless stretch of white. Tris reigns in his horse and dismounts to pull Qarl on in front of him, trusting it's not that much extra weight. Though he's not heavy, he's totally limp, and Tris needs an arm hooked under his pits and a hand gripping the stallion's mane to keep them steady.

When they finally stop for the night, Tris half-drags, half-carries him to a place they can bed down together, which they've previously been doing on their own. His body sags as though already dead, but he is breathing, his heart is beating. Roggon looks on curiously, knowing Qarl as too proud to share a blanket and thinking Tris too shy. Tris just nods to signal he's all right, and the red-bearded man shrugs, turning away as he throws his cloak over both of them.

 

He's nearly asleep when Qarl stirs in his arms and is pretty quick on the uptake, straining to break the restriction encircling his middle before Tris can gently explain the situation. He loosens his hold, allowing him room, whispering to him as he would a spooked horse.

He stills on instinct, realising Tris is not an enemy, yet not exactly a friend, either.

“No,” He moans, “Go away, I fucking hate you.”

“Do you hate me more than you need the warmth?”

Mortified, he almost sobs, because he doesn't, at least, not right now. Tris rubs his shoulders comfortingly, lets him slowly relax back into his chest.

After a while, he asks, sounding somewhat calmer, “Why're you doing this?”

Tris thinks about it, and settles on, “Asha wouldn't want you to die.”

“That's what I don't understand. If I die, then you can have Asha.” His voice breaks on her name.

Tris smiles slightly behind his back. If he'd have known Qarl was this insecure, could be this tense regarding Tris' relationship with his lover, he might've felt more favourably disposed to him earlier.

“She'd never forgive me. Now, try and go back to sleep.” He smooths his dishwater blond hair awkwardly, hoping it'll help.

“Tristifer.” It's the first time he's ever called him something other than Botley, or _your Lordship_ , mockingly of course. “I know you love her. I know- they say that you're a good man-”

He's struggling with it, and turns to face him, so close Tris can see the ice crystals on his eyelashes.

“What I mean is, I might not see her again and-” Qarl swallows, fighting with the fact he doesn't trust him, but others, including Asha, do, therefore he feels he should. Tris wants to tell him not to trouble himself, yet pity of his current vulnerability overcomes the urge to knock him down.

“You will. I'm sure of it. Stop worrying.” He says, then for some reason, and too slowly for it to be anything but intentional, strokes over his thin stomach. They weren't starved in the Glovers' dungeon, but neither did they get enough to eat, and Tris can feel that his fellow prisoner's ribs stand out as prominently as his own. Curious and given confidence by Qarl's lack of protest, he circles further below his belly. The skin is smooth as far down as Tris himself starts to sprout a rough and tangled black thatch, allowing him to go even lower before the tips of his fingers brush any hair at all. He gets the impression, that if he were to explore just a little more, he would find the soft growth matted, perhaps a little sticky with something other than sweat. He had only meant for it to be a comforting touch, but--

“You stupid boy.” Qarl mumbles. “Either you really are pathetically selfless, or you've just wanted me all along.”

He snatches his hand away as though burned. Qarl doesn't let him get far, grabs him and twists his arm harshly behind his back, lifts a knee between his legs. He rests his chin on Tris's shoulder with a cold nose against his neck, mouth growling, “ _Where are you going?_ ” in his ear.

He considers whether Qarl would stop, if he objected. He's not much bigger than Tris, but there's no doubt he could overpower him physically with the strength evident beneath his lean musculature. It's almost this knowledge that means Tris doesn't really want him to stop. His fingers have already crept into Tris's shirt to find his nipples and pinch, making him arch into the gloved touch. Qarl steadies himself on an elbow and leans in, his shaggy hair hanging down into Tris's face, that lazy grin revealing chipped teeth. Faint lines around his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He squeezes hard, and Drowned God, the Maid is a bastard in more ways than one.

He starts when Qarl begins to palm his prick, having dug in under Tris's breeches, blind to what's inside, thumb flicking too quickly over the tip.

“You're just a boy.” He repeats, shaking his head sympathetically. “You've never even had a woman.”

“How do you know that?” Tris stammers, as Qarl's whole hand wraps around him.

“How do you think?”

The fact Asha doesn't treat his secrets with much reverence doesn't entirely surprise him. He just takes some comfort in the assumption she'd probably never tell anyone else.

The thought of her makes him stiff in a way it really shouldn't, since he hasn't seen her naked since they were children playing in the sea. It was because they were caught exploring each other that he was sent away. Qarl came between them in the meantime. She said they'd met in the practice yard or on the wharf, that he was tall and attractive even at seven and ten, difficult to ignore. Tris can hardly disagree with that, as in some bizarre twist of positions, it's his rough fingers playing with him now, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. For a few blissful minutes, he forgets where they are and the all-too-real possibility of freezing to death before reaching their destination, only feels the relief of the sensation, of someone else taking control. He spills in his small clothes, and can't find it in himself to care.

 

He comes back to himself to hear Qarl making a disgusted noise, unceremoniously wiping his hand off in the snow. Tris is unsure of what he wants as always, if he expects Tris to reciprocate in some way, or to pretend the whole thing didn't happen.

“Would you,” He tries, “would you like me to...”

“Turn around.” He interrupts gruffly, and the intent is clear. Even though he's obviously not averse to Tristifer, he does not prefer men in general, he intends to use him as if he were a girl.

He obliges, and Qarl grasps his hip tightly, hitches one of those impossibly long legs against Tris's thigh and grinds in order to bring himself off. He can't, no matter the angle or the desperation with which he thrusts. Tris, for his part, lies there and lets him try to get his pleasure, the attempts getting more wild and less likely to succeed. It seems the least he could do, since the person they're both thinking about is absent, but Qarl's frustrated for this to be so tame, compared with what he's used to. Eventually he swears and rolls off, preparing to finish himself, ashamed.

Tris could by rights leave him to it, having already done enough for him. Instead he turns again, making certain the cloak covers them, cursing himself for being so nervous. His mouth is too dry for what he's planning, so the first thing is to find Qarl's in the dark. It isn't long till he responds, forcing his tongue in, retaliating to the scratch of Tris's full beard on his lightly fuzzed jaw. Tristifer slides down, kissing Qarl's throat with the occasional touch of his teeth, keeping him occupied by giving him what he likes while untying the fastenings of his breeches, seeking to free him from them. By the time he finally realises what's going on and catches Tris's wrist it's too late. His cock practically stands up out of the cloth and Tris isn't sure whether to be amused or aroused at the achingly hard state of him.

“ _Tris_ ,” He hisses, after ages of refusing to say his name like Asha, in order to reinforce the distance between them. “Drowned God, you want my cock to freeze off? Is that your revenge, or-”

Tris pushes his hand back, pinning it to the ground. “You know,” He says, pressing down, “You do know that you don't _have_ to be so forceful all the time, don't you?”

Qarl scoffs, but Tris can tell he's flattered, and envelops him when there are no further complaints. He lets out a strangled sound, burying his fluttering fingers in Tris's unruly curls. He goes with slow strokes to begin with, building an unpractised rhythm. When he starts to go faster, Qarl gasps and it sounds pained, though in a good kind of way. His fist clenches in Tris's hair and he acquiesces,

“All right but look, if it's your first time doing this, you don't have to take it down, all right.”

Tris bristles at the insinuation he's completely inexperienced. It doesn't matter that Qarl's not wrong, or that he's older, or that sucking another man's cock is traditionally a submissive thing. He withdraws a little and leaves him to feel the cold on it, half in, half out. Qarl bucks up angrily, almost causing him to gag, but that's only wordless begging to be put back in.

He closes around him again, reaching up to rub the rutting and embarrassingly moist groin he almost got to before. This time the body beneath him falls stock still as he moves down to Qarl's balls and gets a hold of them, kneading roughly, looking up so he knows it's a challenge. He answers with a low groan and spurts thickly into his mouth. The taste makes Tris choke on swallowing. Qarl's shaking hand wraps around his neck, to drag him back up and lick the unpleasantness of his own seed from Tris's lips.

“You're braver than I thought, little boy.” He nuzzles his cheek, then pushes him away. His pretty eyes are friendlier than they've ever been towards him, and though Tris always hated the way they'd follow Asha around, to see that protectiveness extended over him makes him feel strangely safe.

 

They sleep lying more or less on top of each other instead of side by side, Qarl's arm flung out across Tris's chest and their legs entangled. The following morning before he's awake, Tris tugs off Qarl's half-ruined shoes to look at the size of the grubby feet inside, only grimacing a little prior to deciding to swap boots with him.

He's pulling his own off when Qarl's toes twitch and he groans, opening one sleep-encrusted eye. He shifts onto his elbows, raises his brows at Tris.

“You're wearing these, today.” He says firmly, forcing the first boot on to find he was right, it fits pretty well.

Qarl struggles to sit up properly. “No I'm not.” He contests, really meaning _I couldn't_.

Tris shoves his shoulder to hold him back, drawing the laces tight in the same movement.

“Yes, you are.” He speaks directly into his face, not asking for an argument. “Like I said, I'm going to get you through this.” Qarl blinks, giving in, and allows him to lace the other one on, not doing a thing either to help or hinder him.

He didn't exactly expect any thanks, but still, the Maid acts with bad grace once he's done, pushing off the make-shift blanket, fumbling around for his gear. Then he stops, and sighs, looking up at Tris already risen with that same reluctant approval as last night.

“Don't think I owe you, Botley.”

Tris smiles and shakes his head, offering him a hand which Qarl clasps after only a moment's hesitation.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”


End file.
